


The Empty Room

by Roadstergal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after The Reichenbach Fall.  Sherlock has returned, but John knows - he hasn't, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my inspiration and beta, Kahvi!

"I was at the cafe around the corner today." John looked over at Sherlock. The man sat on the small, ratty couch, tucked away in the corner of John’s army housing, tapping away at his laptop. _His_ laptop. He never touched John's. Well, that made sense, all things considered.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock snapped, irate. Annoyed at the obvious. Like he always had been.

"You weren't there." John rarely went out to eat, only leaving his room when he had to. He had hoped that Sherlock would have been there. Not to share food with him, of course, or even to talk. Simply to be present, even for a moment. 

"No. I told you, nobody else can see me. Just you, John, for now." Sherlock’s voice was vaguely condescending, and he stood, closing his laptop and putting it under his arm. "I have to go."

"Can't you stay a bit?" John had little enough to do, after all. Having this shade of Sherlock around was pleasing, in its way.

But his brain would not cooperate. "I'll be back this evening," Sherlock said, walking out of the door.

John moved to close the door behind Sherlock. This evening. Four hours, at least, to burn until Sherlock reappeared.

* * *

Four hours dragged on, and on. John left to go for a walk, just for something to do, but walks were chores, now. The city was dull these days, featureless, pointless; the people running around even more so, hurrying to this or that thing as if it were, somehow, important. Nothing was terribly important anymore, didn't they realize that?

The worst was the occasional pedestrian who let a look of pity cross their face when they saw him. Almost always a woman, almost always someone he might have shagged, in another life. He barely touched anyone, these days.

Touch. Now that was a thought.

There was still plenty of time left when John returned to his small room; the sun hung over the horizon, smearing garish color across the too-thick air of London . He drew the curtains across the single window, blessedly blocking out the outdoors, and opened the small wooden box that lay at the back of his desk drawer, behind his gun.

He had never quite known what to do with the drugs he confiscated from Sherlock. He had dumped the first load in the biohazard bin at work (when he had worked), but it seemed, somehow, inappropriate to make _them_ deal with the fallout of Sherlock's drugs. And what if he had been caught at it? So into this box they went, a box that he took with him when he left; a box that was now a bit stuffed, if still coping.

The drugs were in pill or powder form, neatly folded into plastic baggies, labeled clearly and concisely. He flipped through them, pulling one out. Three off-white tablets, black sharpie on the baggie - _MDMA, 85mg_. John was hardly an expert on these things, but the kids liked this for the hallucinations, didn't they? Could they, possibly, potentiate his own, accentuate them?

He should see his therapist. What was he doing, taking street drugs in the hope of making a hallucination of his dead friend more real? He was a _doctor_ , for god's sake.

Was a doctor. Not anymore. Now he was an old, lonely veteran, hobbling around with his cane, his only real friend in the world dead and gone. Well, mostly gone. He really _should_ see his therapist.

He shook one of the pills out of the baggie and swallowed it, dry.

* * *

The changes came slowly, subtly, as John lay on his bed. But inexorably, as well; a vitality, a purpose, that he hadn't felt in a good long time was slowly building in him. And love. God, yes, love. He had that already, but dull grey, sad and tainted. This love was fresh, solid, _vital_. Exciting.

He left the door open for Sherlock. A sign, as it were. Even if it were only his brain to his brain, these moments were important to get _right_. And he did get it right; the sound of Sherlock's footsteps on the cheap tile in the corridor, his tall, slender body coming into view - perfect verisimilitude. The shade walked to the couch, and John rose to close the door behind him.

"You shouldn't leave the door open." Sherlock chided, putting his laptop on John's desk and shedding his scarf and coat.

"No, I shouldn't," John agreed, almost gleefully. When had he last felt _glee_? It was fantastic. He slid the bolt on the lock into place, turning to face Sherlock. The dim light highlighted the sharp angles of Sherlock's pale face as the man - the semblance - sat on the small couch. He was beautiful. Unearthly, really. The stories of angels were understandable, if all the hallucinations of the dead looked like _this_.

Sherlock frowned. "You're not all right."

"No," John agreed. He hadn't been all right for quite some time. But this was a better way of being ‘not all right.’ Sherlock looked so _real_. John stepped forward, touching Sherlock's face, gently. Yes. The drugs had done their work; the face was cold, but solid enough.

"You should lie down."

He could _touch_ Sherlock. Well, not Sherlock, but this shade, this so-real memory of him. Was this why Sherlock had the drugs? It was understandable, now. John felt nothing but joy and affection, and a strange, fantastic drive of _possibility_. "Will you lie down with me?" he asked, mischievously.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his brows drawing together.

Instead of playing word games with his tease of a subconscious, John bent forward, pressing his lips to Sherlock's. Nothing could go wrong, now, it seemed, not with this purpose and energy flowing through him. His brain would make it work, would make him feel Sherlock's cool, full, soft lips, would make them taste like flesh when John ran his tongue over them, would make this memory of Sherlock gasp and open his mouth, would let John slide his tongue inside, thrilling with want.

When was the last time he had been _horny_?

The shade pulled back. "Don't," he said, eyes wide.

Don't. Don't kiss? Well, maybe not, but John was well turned on, now. He pulled at Sherlock's trousers, popping the button off, ripping the fly down, pulling the half-hard cock out of the slit in the man's underpants. He had never sucked a man before - and wasn't, really, now, was he? Who could say? All he knew was that he wanted this, in his mouth; it was the _right_ thing to do. And it felt perfectly _right_ in his mouth, as well; smooth velvet skin, the shaft firming as his mouth moved on it, the shade of Sherlock moaning and pushing at John's shoulders (useless, John grabbed the man's wrists and pushed them back against the couch). John licked and sucked, exploring every last iota of the hallucinatory, beautiful, perfect cock, his own cock pressing hard against his trousers, squeezing Sherlock's wrists hard (oh, the feel of them!). He shoved his mouth down, letting that dream of a cock fill him, tickling the back of his throat, then pulled back, shoving down hard again.

It wasn't very long before Sherlock gasped and came, and really, hallucinatory spunk shouldn't taste so vile. But it slid down his throat easily, and all that was left was to lick that delicious cock clean, and John did...

The world tilted slightly, and John found himself sitting on his arse in the middle of the room. "You shouldn't have done that." Sherlock's eyes were wide and dark as he zipped his trousers, the buttonless hem at the top dangling.

"I had to," John sighed, looking up at the apparition. 

“This is only… the drugs.”

“I know,” John replied. Only an illusion. But it was such a perfect, necessary illusion. Why was it angry? His subconscious must be rebelling against the whole _gay_ thing. Sod it, it would learn to get used to it. Yes, he would do this again, and again... and even as Sherlock grabbed his coat and hurried out, John knew. He would make his subconscious come to terms with it. This wasn't about sexuality, it was about _Sherlock_ , and he had loved the man, deeply, and these things defied simple labels.

It was too bad the shade had left, but it would be back. John fell back on his small bed, opening his own trousers, pulling out his cock, and quickly stroking himself off. The orgasm was good, solid, real, and the first he had given himself since Sherlock had died.


	2. Chapter 2

It was two days before Sherlock returned. John's brain needed time to process what had happened, likely. Two days spent in his room, staring out his window, feeling as much ennui as he had felt before - if not more. He even looked up his old therapist's number. He didn't call it, however. That would have been too much effort.

The shade came back in with as little fanfare as he had the first time he had come into John's room. He looked a bit wary, though, and John gave him his space (his own mind his space? what a concept) and lay on the bed, letting Sherlock do his work.

"You haven't showered," Sherlock said, accusingly. Well, of course not. John was disinclined to do anything he didn't have to, and nobody was going to come around, so why bother? But it was a good bit of indirect self-nagging; it simply wasn't hygienic. Wordlessly, John stood, stripped, and put on his robe, hobbling painfully out of the door and down the corridor to the communal showers.

When he returned, cleaner and a bit more awake, the shade was gone. Ah, well. It came and went.

* * *

It did come back, after almost a full week when John had wondered if it would or not, and wondered which was the better outcome. A little voice had started up in the back of his mind, warning him that he couldn't lie around and pretend to have his old life with Sherlock, slowly going mad in his little room. But the thought of getting out, starting a new life - it was intolerable. Just one more week, he begged the little voice. Just one more week to let himself remember Sherlock, have the man come by to visit in his head, and then he could let go, start over. One more week, and after that, just one more again...

Then the shade returned, as worked-up and excited as John could remember seeing him. "John. I need a hat." 

John waved at the closet. "Check in there." The shade wanted to play dress-up, then?

It walked to John's closet, pulling out a warm wool cap and putting it down on his head. He covered his face with his scarf, and in the way that shades could, magically shrank two inches from his height. It looked in the mirror, buttoning the long coat up to its chin. "Not bad."

"Going to a costume ball?"

"No, I'm going to Scotland Yard. And you're coming with me. On your feet!"

The old sense of excitement, of adventure, surged in John, and he got to his feet, grabbing his cane. He paused, then. "Why Scotland Yard?"

"We have to see Lestrade. It's vitally important."

* * *

It took a great deal of effort to keep up with the Sherlock-shade, just as it always had to keep up with the man. Particularly when John had to hobble along with his cane. He was breathing too hard to speak, but his mind was racing. Why Scotland Yard? Why Lestrade? Was this some subconscious cry for help? Would seeing Lestrade not-see Sherlock help... snap him out of it?

John didn't like the idea. He could just stop, let the hallucination go around the corner and dissolve into the filthy air of bus exhausts. But old habits died hard - harder than the man who started them - and so John followed, all of the way to the well-known building, up the stairs, inside. The odd looks that the staff threw at John were to be expected; he must be quite a sight, shaggy-haired, hobbling alone through the corridors. Over to Lestrade's office - the smaller one he had inherited after his demotion. John hadn't seen him since the funeral, and here he was, opening the man's door, and barging right in.

Lestrade looked up. "Oh, there you are." A grin crossed his face.

"I said I would be right over, didn't I?" Sherlock snapped, pulling off his hat and scarf, and straightening to his full height.

John looked back and forth, between Lestrade and Sherlock. "You can... see..." He swallowed. "You can see him?"

"Yes, he's standing right there," Lestrade said, bemused, waving at Sherlock.

"But..." But Sherlock was dead! Was Lestrade dead? Was John? Was this all an extended hallucination - was John growing madder? Would the real Lestrade come in and not see the ghosts of Lestrade and Sherlock, the ever-swelling menagerie of John's insane imagination...

John's brain short-circuited, and he crumpled gracelessly to the ground.

* * *

John blinked. Lights above his head, flickering and fluorescent. Something moving, a head - a human head. Lestrade, eyes worried. Fingers pressing on the side of his throat; he jerked, almost by reflex, knocking the hand away. "You all right?" Lestrade's voice.

Why was he here, on a cold floor? With Lestrade? John sat up, rubbing his forehead - and saw Sherlock.

Sherlock. Dead. The shade. But not dead, was he? They were in Lestrade's office, in Scotland Yard. Lestrade could see Sherlock. John felt dizzy again.

"I'm not dead."

"Did he not tell you it was him?" Lestrade asked, his voice bemused.

The disguise. As if that would be enough to fool John. "I knew..." John's voice was hoarse, and ground to a halt. He had known it was Sherlock, yes. He hadn't known it was _alive_.

"You don't look so good," Lestrade said, his voice worried. His pity grated on John, motivated him.

"I'm fine." John got to his feet, steadying himself on his cane, pushing a confused Lestrade away. "What next, then?"

Sherlock had been staring at John, his eyes dark. "Publicity."

* * *

And publicity came, in the form of a walk outside to the steps of Scotland Yard, into a sea of flashing bulbs, cameras, tape recorders and Smartphones thrust into faces. Sherlock displaying a very interesting packet of data. Interviews with an impassive Sherlock and a triumphant Lestrade. John, doing his best to fade into the background, despite his urge to give Sherlock direction, to tell him to do _this_ and not _that_ and have grace and to put on the goddam deerstalker, because it was his trademark, now, and needed the same redemption...

It didn't matter.

Finally, it was over. Sherlock was gone. The newspeople were gone, in the same rush of too-loud voices and too-bright lights that they had come in with, and John and Lestrade had retreated to Lestrade's empty, flickering-fluorescent office. Lestrade invited him out for a pint. John accepted. When was the last time he had a pint?

The pub was dark, warm, and quiet. The word 'discreet' fluttered through John's mind, but it had nothing to connect with, and so he let it flutter on. The seat of the booth was comfortable, and the bitter was smooth and soothing.

"So." Lestrade cast about for something to say. "Sherlock's alive."

"And vindicated." That had been the most astonishing part; how clear, concise, and incontrovertible the evidence had been. John hadn't been surprised by it. Sherlock wasn't a fraud; he knew that deeply, viscerally. "You'll get your old job back."

"Maybe." Lestrade shrugged. "The higher-ups don't like looking like arseholes, though, so it don't matter too much that I was right. I'll stay Detective a while longer, likely."

"Mmm." John took another pull of bitter. He found it hard to care too terribly much, and that wasn't right. He was being one of those aforementioned arseholes. But all that was on his mind was Sherlock. The shade, now alive. There was no room in his mind for anything else.

"You don't look so good."

"I don't feel so good." That was true enough, but it didn't seem to be the answer Lestrade was expecting. He looked down, picking at his fingers, and John had a sudden urge to get _out_ of there. He hadn't been with _people_ \- aside from Sherlock, and that was _people_ , now, wasn't it, although it hardly counted - for so long, and the experience was draining. His brain wanted relief, it wanted him to be alone again, in his quiet room. That quiet, empty room was enticing to an almost disturbing extent, now. John drained his pint and stood. "I'm going home."

Lestrade stood, as well, and something in his eyes and the way he lightly put his hand on John's back... "I can walk you."

"I'm all right," John demurred, grabbing his cane and hobbling out.

* * *

John's room was not empty when he returned. Sherlock was there.

"I'm sorry," John said, closing the door behind him. The words stung. _Sorry for taking advantage of you._ It had been Sherlock, the whole time, not his subconscious. Or had it been? A bit of both? When had the shade turned into the man? God, please let it be after he had... held the man down, forced him. John sat down on his bed, heavily.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Sherlock began.

"Oh, _shut up_ already!" John barked. "Let me have a little regret, would you?"

Sherlock sat, silently watching.

John sighed. "Sorry." This was going to be an overused word.

Sherlock stood, his arms moving aimlessly, fingers twitching. "I'm going back to Baker Street."

"All right." Well the man should. It was _his_ place, in every way. Mrs. Hudson would be pleased.

Sherlock walked to the door. His elegant fingers reached for the latch, sliding back and forth on the metal where it was worn smooth from the comings and goings of the various transient residents. "You should, too."

"Maybe I will." John looked down at his clasped hands. Lies didn't taste good. Back in Baker Street, in their old flat, as if nothing had happened - as if Sherlock hadn't died, hadn't come back to life, hadn't been living like a ghost in John's little room, hadn't had his trousers torn open, his erection pulled out and sucked... John shivered, hit with a memory that brought equal parts arousal, guilt, and embarrassment.

The slightest noise, the quiet groan of wood that old houses made at night, and like a ghost, Sherlock was gone.


End file.
